


The Shy, Retiring Multicolour Man

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: dw_straybunnies, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This happened to Sherlock and me today, and I thought there ought to be some sort of record.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shy, Retiring Multicolour Man

**Author's Note:**

> For the [dw_straybunnies](http://dw-straybunnies.livejournal.com) prompt of the month: [Doctor Who / BBC Sherlock crossover, with Sherlock meeting Six.](http://dw-straybunnies.livejournal.com/39578.html)

This didn't really count as a proper case, but it's weird enough that I thought there ought to be some sort of record of it. 

It all started pretty much as usual — the call from Lestrade, the struggle to convince Sherlock that yes, this was complicated enough that he had to come and look at it and no, he wouldn't get bored, the ride on the Underground to York Road. Taking Sherlock on the Tube is always a bit of a gamble — it's about fifty-fifty that he won't be able to resist telling me something he's deduced about one of the other passengers, and they never take it well. Recently, it's got worse, because now you get people asking for his autograph as well. 

Lestrade was waiting for us outside a block of flats, not far from the station. The whole area had been cordoned off, and a bunch of local people were standing there trying to see what was going on. Other policemen seemed to be escorting people out of the building. 

"Which is it?" Sherlock asked. "Explosives or poison?" 

"Poison," Lestrade said. "Bloke who lived on the second floor. Thought he'd be the next Harry Selden, I expect." 

I'd known Sherlock long enough to follow his train of thought. If the police had discovered something that made them evacuate the building, odds were that it was the same thing that we'd been called in for. And from that, it wasn't much of a stretch to the idea of an amateur terrorist — or a not-so-amateur terrorist. 

Sherlock held up his hand. "Don't tell me anything else. Not until I've seen it for myself." 

I looked up at the sky. A few drops of rain were already falling, and by the look of things there was a lot more on its way. "Do we have to wait out here?" I said. 

Before Lestrade could answer, Sergeant Donovan detached herself from the policemen by the entrance and came over to us. "That's the last of them," she said. "You can go in if you like, but don't touch anything." 

The flat, when we got to it, was pretty chaotic, and there was no doubt that the man who lived there hadn't been an upstanding citizen. Exhibit A was several oil drums in the living room, full of what Lestrade told us could easily be ricin. Exactly how dangerous they were depended on how good a chemist the tenant had been, but we all took care not to touch them. There was also a table covered with electronic bits and pieces. I recognised them from my service in Afghanistan: he'd been making detonators. 

"All right," Sherlock said, once we'd had the tour. "What's the problem?" 

"The problem's this." Lestrade pushed a door open, revealing the flat's bedroom. There was a motionless figure sprawled on the bed, a carving knife protruding from his chest. "Best information we have is, this was the tenant. Mr Richard Jones, if you believe for a second that was his real name. Take a look at him, Doctor." 

"Well, the knife didn't kill him," I said, after a few moments' examination. "There isn't enough blood. He was stabbed some time after he died. The actual cause of death was a blow to the skull." 

"Right," Lestrade said. "Someone bashed him over the head. Fair enough. Then, long after he's dead, someone else sticks a knife in him. What's the point?" 

"And took away his laptop." Sherlock indicated a rectangular mark in the dust on a side table. "But not his address book or his wallet. If he wasn't working on his own, and other members of his gang did this to cover something up, you'd expect them to do a better job— what's that noise?" 

We stood and listened. The sound was faint, coming from somewhere overhead; a grinding, uneven noise, like a motor on worn bearings. After a few seconds, it stopped again. 

Lestrade shrugged. "Probably someone's fridge cutting in upstairs. These flats don't have much in the way of soundproofing." 

"Maybe." Sherlock had turned his attention to a set of shelves, which contained half-a-dozen books and a collection of trinkets. "Anyway, as I was saying, this obviously wasn't a professional killing and will you please tell your people to stop chattering outside when I'm trying to concentrate?" 

"Hang on." Lestrade spun round. "I don't know who that is, but it isn't anyone of mine." 

We hurried out to the landing, in time to catch two people coming down the stairs. The man in front was a big fellow with a mop of curly blond hair, wearing a hideous multicoloured coat with lurid trousers to match. Behind him was another fashion victim: a young redheaded woman in a spotted polyester dress, with a bow in her hair. They didn't seem to realise we were there until they reached the landing we were on; then the man looked up. 

"Don't mind us," he said. "Just passing through." 

"Now just a minute." Lestrade leaned over the banisters and called down the stairwell. "Donovan!" He turned back to the two. "Who are you and how did you get in here?" 

"Don't tell me." The man looked at our faces. "We've walked straight into a crime scene again. What is it? Murder? And you're just itching to arrest us for it." 

Sergeant Donovan hurried up the stairs. "Sir?" she asked. 

Lestrade took her to one side. "Donovan, do you remember me telling you to make sure everybody was evacuated from the building? No-one left hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe? Perhaps you'd like to explain how you managed to overlook someone dressed like that?..." 

"I can see I've picked a bad moment," the man said. "So he's had the building evacuated. Don't tell me there's something horrible lurking in the shadows and eating people." 

"Amateur terrorist," Sherlock said briefly. 

"Ah, so he was making sure no-one gets too close just in case whatever he was working on goes off. But what's your connection to this? Don't tell me you answer to that policeman with the big boots." 

"I don't answer to anyone," Sherlock said. 

"No? So you, too, just happened to be passing and, hearing that the police had discovered a suspected terrorist, decided to wander in and offer your services — which they immediately and unquestioningly accepted. A remarkable tale, but I think we both know circumstances are rarely that straightforward." 

"They certainly won't be if you start trying to be clever," Sherlock said. "You two are in a hurry — your friend's looked at her watch six times since we stopped you. All I have to do is say the word, and you'll be in the Inspector's custody so fast your feet won't touch the ground." 

The unknown man drew himself up. "I don't have to try to be clever. It comes naturally." 

"Right," Lestrade said, rejoining us while Sergeant Donovan stalked off, glaring daggers at us all. What's going on here?" 

The blond man raised his eyebrows. "And you might be?" 

"Inspector Lestrade, CID. Now, what are you doing this close to a crime scene and why weren't you evacuated with everyone else?" 

"For the very simple reason that I wasn't here at the time." 

"So what? You got in through the fire escape? I'll have Anderson's guts for garters..." 

"No," Sherlock said. "He didn't. He's been indoors all day. No signs of rain on their clothes or their shoes." 

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you're not helping." 

"Sherlock?" A look of surprise crossed the man's face. "Sherlock Holmes?" 

"That's him." 

"But he can't be," the girl said. "I mean, that doesn't make any... what year is this, again?" 

There was a long silence while we all stared at her. Eventually I took pity on her and told her: "2011." 

"I should like to see some proof of that," the man said. "Has anybody got a newspaper?" 

No-one had, but the clocks on our mobile phones seemed to convince him. 

"But he doesn't look like Sherlock Holmes," the girl persisted. "I mean, Sherlock Holmes wears a hat..." 

Sherlock glanced at me. "Explain it to her. I can't be bothered." 

I took the girl, who presently introduced herself as Melanie, to one side, and explained about the hat. I deduced that she had to be one of Sherlock's less sensible fans, the sort to think she knew everything about him just from seeing a picture of him on Facebook. Though when I mentioned Facebook, she just looked blankly at me. I'd thought everyone under thirty was on it. 

Once that was sorted out, we rejoined Sherlock, Lestrade and the mystery visitor. It seemed the ice had been broken; Lestrade was explaining what he'd found in the flat, and Sherlock was pointing out all the things Lestrade had missed. 

"John," Sherlock said, as I approached. "We need an adjudication." 

I knew what he'd meant — I've done it enough times when Mycroft comes round and they start arguing about some deduction or other. They both write down what they think, and I'm the one who has to read the bits of paper and and decide which one's right. I never have a clue what the right answer is, but it stops the arguments about who stole whose idea first. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to tempt this oddly-dressed stranger into playing the same game. 

I took the two pieces of paper, and unfolded them with appropriate solemnity. 

"Sherlock's theory is that the murderer was the man's wife, civil partner, or lover, delete as appropriate," I read. "He or she killed him, then, later, came up with the idea of making it look as if his terrorist friends did it, by stealing the laptop and sticking a knife in him. From the dust marks there's a photograph missing from the bookshelf in the bedroom. That will be a photograph of the two together." 

I folded Sherlock's bit of paper, and got ready to unfold the other one. 

"Our... what is your name, by the way?" 

There was no answer. I looked up, to see that while I'd been reading and Lestrade and Sherlock had been watching me, the unknown man and Melanie had somehow got halfway up the stairs to the next floor. 

"After him!" Lestrade shouted. We were already running, anyway, but they'd got quite a lead. 

"Sorry," he called over his shoulder. "Must dash." 

Lestrade added to his collection of Useless Things I Have Shouted with "Come back here!" 

"I'm afraid not." The man was by now at the door of one of the flats. "Mel's late for a meeting of the Red-Headed League." 

He slammed the door in our faces. Sherlock tried to charge it, but Lestrade grabbed him by the shoulders, dragged him back, and pulled out what I guessed was a caretaker's pass key. In next to no time, he'd got the door open, and we were in the flat. But there was no sign of Melanie or her partner in crime. We went through every room, twice, and didn't see or hear any trace of them. Just, briefly, I thought I heard that fridge motor again. 

There isn't much more, really. The police soon tracked down Mrs Jones, and she confessed to what she'd done straight away. As for our ghost story, Sherlock says the man was either a performance artist or a stage magician. I suppose that would make some sort of sense — and if he was a magician, it would explain Melanie, too. 

But while I was typing this up, his phone rang. It was Mycroft. I don't know what they're talking about, but I don't think this is just to congratulate Sherlock for helping to sort out the Jones murder. 

Like I said, weird. Even by our standards. 

* * *

So what did the other piece of paper say? 

**Mike Stamford** 10th October 20:22 

* * *

I've got it here. It's completely blank. 

**John Watson** 10th October 20:28 

* * *

I'm sure I've seen this guy!!! It was years ago. At the Millennium party at Canary Wharf. Multicoloured clothes just like you describe. I was only a kid, of course. PS did you test the paper for invisible ink? 

**C Melas** 10th October 22:04 

* * *

Sherlock did. Kept him out of mischief for a couple of hours this evening. 

**John Watson** 10th October 22:18 

* * *

2000 wasnt even the start of the millennium 

**theimprobableone** 10th October 23:29 

* * *

If you like conspiracy theories, try searching for 'melanie multicoloured coat' on Searchwise. Someone called Clive thinks the guy's a secret society of identical assassins. He's got pictures to prove it. Worst Photoshops I've ever seen. 

**C Melas** 11th October 00:18 

* * *

I had a look. He seems to think there's a secret base inside Mount Snowdon where they keep the alien bodies. Nutcase. 

**John Watson** 11th October 00:25 

* * *

Snowdon's too obvious. Try Glyder Fawr next time. 

**anonymous** 11th October 00:51 

* * *


End file.
